Artistic Fulfillment
by eveninganna
Summary: In which Rachel paints, Nico cooks, and Rachel has an epiphany concerning her feelings for Nico. Rachel/Nico, one-shot.


_**Author's Note: **_As always, I don't care that I have stories to work on. Rachel and Nico are far more important. Anyways, this is a short fic set before Rachel and Nico have started "dating" and such, and it's basically about Rachel's realization of how much Nico means to her. Oh, and the song I quote at the beginning, is a _great_ song. If you haven't heard it before, I suggest you go listen to it. It's one of my favorites.

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

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><p><em>I never thought I could love anyone but myself<em>

_Now I know I can't love anyone but you_

_You make me think that maybe I won't die alone_

_Maybe I won't die alone_

-_Die Alone, _Ingrid Michaelson

**-o-**

"I thought we'd agreed on this, di Angelo," Rachel said, the hand holding a blue-tipped paint brush in the air. "You cook, I paint."

"See, the problem with that is that although it may be a great arrangement for _you_," Nico said, looking up from the pot he was stirring in.,"it is lacking reciprocaty."

"Oh, big word," Rachel said, continuing to paint the canvas. "What do you mean, Shakespeare?"

"What I mean," he said, continuing to stir the pot, "is that your painting does absolutely _nothing _for me, while my cooking does wonders for you."

Rachel frowned. "What do you mean, it does _nothing _for you?" she demanded. "What about artistic fulfillment?"

"Isn't artisitic fulfillment for the artist?" Nico asked.

"Perhaps," Rachel allowed. "Look, Nico, do you think Van Gogh had a Italian demigod cooking food for him while he painted _Starry Night_?" she asked, one hand on her hip. "_No_. He did not. Which is why he cut off his ear." She went back to painting.

"Okay," Nico said. "Still not sure how this has anything to do with us, but I can tell you're about to crack just like Van Gogh, so I won't push it."

"Nico!" Rachel exclaimed. "It had _everything _to do with us!" She skipped across the newspapers she'd set out on the wood floor of her living room, arriving in the kitchen successfully without getting paint anywhere unwanted. When Nico had come over, telling her he was going to be cooking for her again, she had immediately moved her current work in progress to the living room. Thus far, they had both been able to keep a steady stream of not-overly-snarky conversation going whilst they worked on their individual art forms.

"How, exactly?" he asked, looking up to take her in; her messy hair in an even messier pony tail, shirt sleeves and pant cuffs rolled up, paint splattered across her hands.

"You, di Angelo, cook for me so that I _don't _go completely insane and cut off my ear! Or - or shoot myself, like Van Gogh!" she exclaimed. "You're what Van Gogh didn't have and, frankly, needed." She wrinkled her nose. "Anyways, you're much better company than a prostitute."

"Well, I try," Nico said, continuing to stir the contents of the pot.

"I don't think you understand, Nico," Rachel said, leaning on the counter of the kitchen. "You're like the Diego Rivera to my Frida Kahlo."

Nico looked up, eyebrows scrunched together as if deep in thought. "Didn't he cheat on her?" Nico said. "Like, repeatedly?"

"Pish posh," Rachel said with a wave of her hand. "They remarried before she died. But that's not the point!" she exclaimed once again, slamming her hand down on the counter, causing Nico to turn around slightly, a bemused look on his face. "The point is, di Angelo, that without you and your recipes that come out of absolutely _no where _I'd just be a crazy artist, starving in my gigantic apartment."

"Are you trying to thank me, Dare?" Nico asked, glancing over again.

"No!" she said quickly - too quickly. "I'm - I'm trying to tell you that..."

What she was trying to tell him was that she knew that he smiled more when she's around, and she smiled more when he's around, too. She wanted to tell him that she didn't feel so boring when he was there, and like the only reason she mattered was because she was the Oracle. She wanted to tell him that she thought he was sweet and caring and misunderstood and handsome. She wanted to tell him that he was the only person she'd ever wanted to say these kinds of things to. She wanted to tell him that she wanted to know what that glimpse he gave her everytime he laughed at her for something or other was; that glimpse that only lasted for a second, but then he'd turn away, and it would be gone.

She wanted to tell him that she wishes she could tell him all these things, but that she can't. She wanted to tell him that ever since the beginning of what was their relationship, she's felt hopeful that maybe, possibly, she won't be the Oracle forever.

"Rachel?" Nico asks, looking staight at her in that way that made her stomach churn. "What are you trying to tell me?"

So she ignored everything that she wanted to say to him, and instead she said, "What I'm trying to say is that you need to hurry up." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "All this artisitic fulfillment and such has left me famished."

And he just smirked, and came up with a snarky reply as always. And she just wanted to tell him that she loves him because he's the only person she's ever met who can come up with a witty comeback like that, in the allotted time.

And maybe she will tell him.

Someday.

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><p><strong>Review, please.<strong>


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